Written In The Eaves
by impromptucoffee
Summary: The house, the alcove, is Kurt's safety, books and dreams and outside is tinted with fear. The roof is Kurt's place to sit in amongst that fear while unafraid. Companion piece to The Tops of Buldings, I Can See Them Too.


**Title: **Written In The Eaves  
**Summary: **The house, the alcove, is Kurt's safety, books and dreams and outside is tinted with fear. The roof is Kurt's place to sit in amongst that fear while unafraid.  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Disclaimer: **I own nada.

**Warnings: **Mentions of homophobia.

**A/N: **This is a companion piece to 'The Tops of Buildings (I Can See them Too).' You don't _have _to have read it to understand this piece, but it might help with picturing where Kurt is. Title is once again taken from Mansard Roof by Vampire Weekend.

* * *

**Written In The Eaves**

* * *

Burt often finds himself leaning against the kitchen doorway these days, peering through the open plan house into the living room where Kurt is curled up in the alcove, eyes glued to a book. It's an everyday site and Burt's come to find it the norm that his own mouth curls up into a smile when he sees Kurt's eyes light up as they take in words so familiar, but new in the adventure they tell.

It's common knowledge to Burt that Kurt's suffered his fair share of insults over the years. Kurt's always been a beautiful child to Burt: polite, strong-willed and special in the best way possible, but the world speaks in many languages, all riddled with words of hate that people aren't afraid to use against his son because he's different, not afraid to love another human being out loud, regardless of their gender.

So it's never been odd to Burt that since Kurt was seven years old and insisted he could read alone that Kurt's come home from school, slipped quietly through the house and settled himself in the alcove, a book open in his lap, the words inviting him in rather than shouting, screaming and cutting in a way that doesn't bleed but hurts just as much. Kurt may not have fully understood back then how disgusting the taunts being thrown at him were, how outside of the world he was, but Burt thought he had some idea, if the way he would disappear into a book for hours, talking about the characters like they were his friends, was any indication.

Three months after Kurt's eighth birthday, Kurt's mother died. Kurt became a shell of the book-loving, happy child Burt knew. Kurt would disappear up to his room after school and Burt would hear him crying while he cried himself, sat on the stairs wondering what he could do for his broken child. It was five weeks after Kurt's mother's death that Burt sat himself in the alcove where Kurt used to sit, tucking his large frame into the small space and staring out of the window, trying to imagine what Kurt felt when he sat there. He wanted to give it back to Kurt: the security, the comfort and the happiness. So much of it came from Kurt's books and it pained Burt to not see Kurt read anymore because it was Kurt's escape and that's what Kurt needed.

Burt wasn't sure how long he stayed there, head resting against the glass, blinking out at the sliver of world he could see between his own house and the close one next door. He only moved when a small hand tapped on his shoulder and he rolled his head to the other side, smiling down at Kurt who was clutching a book to his chest, shifting his feet. "I think I'm ready to read again," Kurt had said and Burt had unfolded himself to lean back against the window and place Kurt on his lap, the book open between them. Before he'd begun to read, he'd held Kurt tight, pressing a long kiss to his hairline, whispering, "Why now, son?"

Kurt took a long time to answer, his small fingers fiddling with a button on Burt's shirt, until he looked up, big blue eyes shining with a smile that Burt hadn't seen since his mother passed. "Mom's in the books," Kurt said. "I miss her and-" Kurt's voice had cracked, a small hiccup jumping from his throat and Burt squeezed him tight. "I want to be with her again," Kurt said and Burt had asked no more, simply kissed Kurt's forehead and started to read.

They haven't read together since Kurt was thirteen and had been leant against Burt on the sofa, listening to the tale of Snow White (a children's book but an old favourite of Kurt's and his mothers) and stopped Burt reading abruptly by running his index finger over the word "prince" printed black and bold on the page.

"Does a prince always save the girl?" Kurt had asked, his voice small and nervous. Burt had nodded and said, "Most of the time," staying silent afterwards, knowing Kurt was going somewhere else with this, not just curious on the storylines of fairytales. "Do they ever save a boy?"

Burt had never loved Kurt more in that moment. He'd always seen Kurt as unique, special, a force to be reckoned with and he ruffled Kurt's hair, moving his hand down to cup his cheek and tilt his face up, seeing Kurt's eyes shining with tears. "You could be the first," Burt said and Kurt had choked on a laugh, leaning into his father's touch, where unconditional love flowed through his veins. "Make your own story."

"But stories are in books," Kurt said, sounding distant, sad. "I don't think there's a prince out there for me," Burt had pulled Kurt closer so his son's head rested on his shoulder, the book now closed on his lap, "and I don't think there's a boy for me to save."

"You'll save each other, be each others prince," Burt said and Kurt had eventually nodded, thanking Burt later for letting him dream of strong arms not a curvy waist, a chiseled jaw not flushed, pampered cheekbones. Kurt wanted a prince, not a princess and Burt thought maybe it was time for a new type of fairytale, where his own son found the boy he loved, not the damsel in distress.

For a while after their conversation, Burt mourned the loss of reading with Kurt. He felt like he was invited into Kurt's world in those times, allowed to explore what Kurt let no one else see, what others maybe wouldn't understand, but he realized Kurt wasn't pushing him away when they stopped reading, he was just growing up, wanting to be independent. So Burt sat back, occasionally flicked through a book or two Kurt left in the alcove, and watched his son grow from the baby-faced boy Burt was used to, into a tall young man with confidence and a sarcastic wit that irritates and amuses Burt all at once. Kurt's seventeen now, turning eighteen next year, and it pleases Burt, and warms his heart, to see Kurt in the alcove everyday, still finding new places to discover, places where Burt likes to think Kurt still sees his mother in a feisty young detective or a bright witch.

The books are still an escape to Kurt though, despite how much he's grown, showing the world he's a better person for being who he is without much of a care for others opinions. He has friends, the few who understand what it's like to be an outsider, and Burt knows they're good to Kurt, even if they show it in a strange way, always fighting but loving each other underneath it all. But Kurt's best friends are in books. Some parents might think this strange, that their child feels closest to people who don't exist, but Burt has never judged Kurt, never will judge him and he wonders who could sit by and watch their child smile the widest they ever have because their head is in a book, in the clouds, and then want different for them? Burt doesn't want to change anything Kurt is or anything he does because the thought makes Burt see the tear stained face of his eight year old son, bookless and alone, without a mother or his favourite dreams from well loved pages and he'll never do that to Kurt. He can't make his son lose his constant in life.

It takes ten minutes for Burt to realize his own constant has gone. Not so much gone, but moved. He walks through the living room one evening in late spring and stops in his tracks, looking back over his shoulder and frowning at the empty alcove. The sun is still up, about to start setting, and it's casting light across the room, lighting up the small space perfectly in a way Burt knows Kurt loves because he's told him many times before (_"The light is warm but not scorching and the words look bright and clear"_).

It doesn't unnerve Burt that the alcove is empty but he goes looking for Kurt anyway. He's used to Kurt's routine of coming through the door, doing his homework, having dinner then spending an evening in the living room, occasionally laughing into his book, reminding Burt he's still there, he's still happy. So when Kurt's not there it worries him a little, reminds him of the days Kurt was missing when his mother died. He immediately thinks Kurt's had a bad day, is hiding away in his room instead of in his books and it's not unusual for teenagers to have their hideaways, hole away in their rooms, ignore their parents, but Kurt's not a normal teenager.

Burt reaches Kurt's bedroom door, which is open just a crack, and leans inside, foot only halfway into the room out of respect for Kurt's personal space. Kurt's not at his desk, his homework finished for the evening, so Burt steps in a little further, keeping a steady hand on the door handle, his head tilting to the side in curiosity when he catches sight of Kurt's back through his bedroom window where he's sat on the roof above the living room alcove.

Kurt looks comfy where he is, a jacket and scarf on against the cold breeze of a spring evening, head bowed as he reads and Burt is struck with the thought that Kurt's done this before, knows his place well on the small piece of roof. Burt's never thought about where Kurt reads in his room, he always assumed on the bed or at the desk, under the light from the other window, but this makes sense. The alcove is directly below Kurt, where the light is perfect in any season, and Burt understands why Kurt sits outside, soaking up the air as he reads, in a spot so familiar to the one downstairs.

What Burt came to say to his son (_"The alcove looks bare without you"_) no longer seems relevant. He sees now the previous times when Kurt hadn't been in the alcove but had emerged later to come say goodnight, a smile on his face, worries of the day nowhere to be seen, and realizes that on a day when something's happened, when Kurt's been told he's not right, not normal, he must sit on the roof, above his beloved space, and escape into pages that love him while exposed to a world that hates him. In the alcove he's covered, a pane of glass between himself and the hurt of a previous day and previous years, a book in his lap to ease his mind, but out there, where people can see him while the pain's still fresh, he's showing that he'll survive. Others would raise their fists, make a display of their physical strength, but Kurt finds pride and power in letting the world turn around him while he's outside, escaping and smiling. Burt knows the house, the alcove, is Kurt's safety, books and dreams and outside is tinted with fear. The roof is Kurt's place to sit in amongst that fear while unafraid.

Burt backs out of the room quietly, not willing to disturb Kurt when he's being so strong, and leaves the door the way he found it. Kurt's routine returns to normal the next day when he retreats to the alcove after dinner. There's no change for two or three weeks and Burt watches him go every night and squeezes his shoulder as he passes through tonight, settling down on the sofa to watch the football and listen for Kurt's laugh that reminds him that today's been hurt free.

The mindless chatter of the commentators is disturbed an hour or so later when Burt hears Kurt shift and the gentle padding of feet across the carpet. Kurt leans over the back of the sofa and hugs Burt goodnight, disappearing upstairs and Burt thinks nothing of it, assuming Kurt's wanting an early night or has more homework to finish, until he steps into the garden a while later to collect in the washing from the line and hears quiet shuffling.

He keeps hold of the shirt in his hands and steps around the side of the house, looking through the gap between his own alcove and the one next door, expecting to see some people on the street, maybe children out playing late. He sees nothing as he squints into the evening light but his eyes dart upwards at a movement from above, something shifting in the corner of his eye and he sees Kurt first, cross-legged on the roof, his pale skin bright in the growing darkness and he falters for a moment, remembering Kurt sitting in the alcove, glass between himself and the world because he didn't need to be so strong today or show anyone he could be happy in the face of their sneers.

He rests against the corner of the house when he notices the movement that caught his eye that tells him Kurt's not alone. A boy with tanned skin and curly hair is climbing through the window of the house next door, and settles on his own roof across from Kurt, glancing briefly at Kurt's still form, one corner of his mouth turning up into a lopsided smile before he opens his own book and bows his head, eyes immediately glued to the pages. Burt's seen Kurt be sucked into a book in seconds many times and he takes Kurt's lack of movement as a sign that he knows this boy, is used to the noise interrupting his reading, and he wonders how long Kurt's had a new friend, someone to read with in friendly silence.

He watches the boy a little longer, satisfied he's someone Kurt knows and trusts when Kurt briefly looks up at him, his smile the one Burt's only seen directed at himself and Kurt's mother, and sees everything he often sees in Kurt as he reads: shoulders tensing, a grin, sometimes a gasp, sounds and shifts Burt's sure the boys don't realize they're doing.

It's these small things though that make Burt really look at this boy, tilt his head and observe everything. All Burt's ever wanted for Kurt is a friend who understands and gets lost in a book in the same way, someone Kurt can talk to for hours about authors, genres and dreams. He can't be that for Kurt, as much as he wants to be, but he listens if Kurt talks, because he loves the sight of Kurt's face glowing as he speaks, eyes alight with tales of magic, romance and hope. Burt's certain that if he asked this boy on the opposite roof about the book in his lap, he'd mirror Kurt: grinning and bouncing, describing every character like he knows them personally and telling the story like it's his own.

Burt wants to ask, see that he's right, feel a grin split his face when he's shown that he's correct to be certain of one more thing.

This boy is Kurt's prince, Kurt's boy to save. Kurt's own story has begun.

* * *

**Thanks for reading - reviews are welcome :)**


End file.
